


Roman Candle

by orphan_account



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: (i'll try), Angst and Humor, Canon-Typical Violence, F/M, Mild canon divergence, Romance, Slow Burn, UST, all the bantz
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-24
Updated: 2016-07-24
Packaged: 2018-07-26 10:14:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,095
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7570225
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Currently just a selection of drabbles that I will hopefully eventually elaborate into a story. It's still in the planning stages, but these little drabbles are what I'm writing in between.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Roman Candle

“There was this mage - Ellandra was her name, I think.” The Herald looked down at her bowl, swirling it’s mysterious contents around aimlessly. “She was waiting for her lover, a Templar, who had her phylactery. I felt terrible when I found his body.”

Cullen froze, knuckles turning white around his empty flagon. He knew far too well the painful consequences of mage-templar romance. “What - what did you say?” He was shocked at how quiet the words he croaked out were, and he could feel questioning looks from those around him at the sudden show of emotion. The Herald glanced at him in confusion from the corner of her eye, but continued nevertheless.

“I told her, of course. It’s far better to know the truth than worry forever.” She looked up at him, eyes wide and innocent, no cocky grin for once, and he felt sick. How dare she think she knew what was best, when she couldn’t ever understand the pain of losing everyone you had loved or cared for. How the stolen, furtive kisses and longing glances were never enough, how this poor woman had lost the one hope of living an almost normal life; all because of this fruitless war they fought in, sparked directly from his inaction.

Yet here he was, brooding into his mug as the Herald continued her tale, the words drifting past him aimlessly as he wandered the labyrinth of his thoughts. He felt the shadows closing in as he thought about her; her long black hair, her bright green eyes, the way they lit up when she read him a passage from her textbooks that she found particularly interesting. _Haven, not Kinloch,_  he reminded himself, _tavern, not Tower._  He could still feel the bile rising in his throat, though, and the buttery taste of the ale lingering in his mouth no longer brought him comfort.

“I think it’s time I left.” The words were harsh, brisk, and the scraping of his chair as he stood up to leave drowned out any questions that may have been thrown his way as he strode out of the tavern, back stiff; but he could fell the questioning, concerned glances boring into his back as he closed the door behind him and hurried to his tent, offering a curt nod to any who passed him on his way.

When he reached his tent, he collapsed in his cot, head pounding and throat dry. Would he never escape the clutches of Kinloch? It had been more than a decade and yet he still clung to it desperately like a man to driftwood in a storm, when it was truly the thing causing him to sink and down, choking the life out of him slowly but surely. He reached behind his desk and drew out the bottle of whiskey he kept there for nights like this, something to get him so out of it he could finally have some sense of respite. The lyrium - _Maker, the lyrium_  - was the best source of calm, but the alcohol was all that could offer him piece now, cool blue replaced by warm brown and a burning down his throat as he chugged straight from the bottle.

He was deep into the pit of drunkenness that so often haunted him in the darkness of night when he heard the gentle scratch on coarse canvas, indicating someone wanting entry; so it was with a rough voice and shaky hands that he called “Come in,” and slid the now corked bottle back behind his cot. Varric, poking his head through the flaps, was the one to greet him; not the sharp-faced Seeker he was expecting.

“Is there something you needed, Tethras?” Cullen prided himself on his ability to appear sober when drunk; something that had become necessary in the recent past; and so the words were spoken without slurring, and with the cold detachment one would expect from a military commander; and yet that only seemed to allow Varric’s eyes to narrow further in concern.

“Not exactly. You left the tavern rather quickly and Scribbles was worried she’d pissed you off.”

It took Cullen embarrassingly long, in his inebriated state, to realise that Varric was referring to his earlier display at the Maiden, and that “Scribbles” was the Herald. It took him longer once again to realise that what he did could be viewed that way, although he couldn’t quite bring himself to feel anything but mild chagrin at the misunderstanding; the Herald wasn’t fond of him regardless, and the feeling was mutual. He respected her skill, no doubt; she was deadly with a blade and decisive at the war table. He couldn’t help think of all the small ways she was similar to Meredith, though, in the early days; while decisiveness was a trait often admired in war leaders, it also betrayed the motivations behind, and the Herald’s worried him. She was always so sure of her decisions and walked about Haven with all the swagger and confidence a Knight-Commander-come-Viscount might’ve, had she let her office rather than pouring over red lyrium scripts.

Yet he often found himself directly referencing their Herald to those moments with the old Meredith, snippets of memories seen with startling clarity. Meredith, addressing both the Templars and Guards mere days after his arrival, words strong, voice passionate and unwavering as she promised to take care of the city. The Herald, declaring the beginning of the Inquisition, her and the Advisors posting as a united front before the unwashed masses of Haven, soldiers and civilians alike; before being found soon after lecturing a noble in Josephine’s office, words icy and barbed, watching as he slunk from the door in the same way that night on everyone left Meredith’s, tail between their legs.

Realising he had been silently brooding and offering Varruc no reply, he turned back to the dwarf from where his eyes had locked on the the canvas walls around him; a small loose thread directly above where his lyrium kit sat, unused, in a locked box; calling out to him even when his veins thrummed with other intoxicants.

“You can inform Lady Trevelyan that it was nothing of the sort, Varric. But thank you for your concern.” He nodded once to the dwarf before beginning to undo his sword belt, preparing to attempt sleep once again; although he doubted he would get much in his current mindset. He heard Varric return to the flaps, and also heard - quiet but not indistinguishable, and definitely meant to be received -

“It wasn’t concern for you, Curly.”


End file.
